


The Sleeping Bud, Burst into Bloom

by harleygirl2648



Series: If There's a Light at the End, It's Just the Sun in Your Eyes [2]
Category: American Gods (TV), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - American Gods Fusion, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied Sexual Content, Imprisonment, Intimacy, M/M, Separations, Smoking, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2018-12-30 17:01:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12113214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harleygirl2648/pseuds/harleygirl2648
Summary: You don’t get to dieand be reborn the same.You come back,but you come back wrong.This is the price you payfor resurrection.-Nathaniel Orion G. K.Will and Hannibal come to the spring equinox and something gives way. Shadow and Wednesday get tangled up into this  mess again.The story doesn't always go the way it was originally written. Something always changes when it is redone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> SO. I have been thinking about a possible sequel to The Blood Must Flow for a long time, and I finally sat down and wrote it! There's going to be several chapters to this, at least eight, I think. So strap in, we're going to get gory and creepy and Romantic with a capital R!
> 
> (And I'm not sorry for the two poems, they are lovely and needed to be included. Go send the author some love on Tumblr!)

**_SILVER BULLET - Nathaniel Orion G. K._ **

_This is our_

_most beloved_

_holy holy holy town._

_You can turn water into wine._

_We can turn wine into blood._

_Drink it — does it taste the same?_

_It feels thick when you rake_

_your fingers through it,_

_but it melts so easy easy_

_on the tongue._

_Call a man a monster enough times_

_and he starts to answer to it._

_Call a man a monster enough times_

_and he grows fangs._

_This story isn’t a tragedy_

_until someone dies,_

_and even then, it isn’t_

_your problem if that someone_

_is not you —_

_But you still shy away_

_from hallowed ground,_

_you still test your teeth_

_in the bathroom mirror_

_with the tip of your tongue._

 

* * *

 

Will stood out on the second-story veranda, looking down and out at the night lights of the city and the people moving like ants on the ground. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the crisp, night air. It smells like spice, coffee, and the faintest hint of the first flowers blossoming after winter. His grip on the iron railing tightens as he feels Hannibal rest his hand on his hip, thumb running over the bone.

No words are exchanged. None are necessary. Not yet at least, even as he feels Hannibal nuzzle against the stubble on his jaw. He smiles in return, reaching back with his free hand to smooth back Hannibal’s hair. He can feel the grip on his hip tighten as he’s gently pulled back into the dark confines of the bedroom, the glass veranda doors shutting out any semblance of the slight chill in the air. It’s almost spring, so it’s still a little cold. The glass is cool against his skin as Will is pressed against it, and he kisses Hannibal, and it tastes like merlot and medium-rare steak.

The word _beautiful_ passes both of their lips and enters each other's mouths.

 

 

“You seem pensive,” Will asks later, shifting his position in the bed so that his head leans where Hannibal’s neck meets his shoulder. “What’s bothering you?”

Hannibal’s fingers reach up to run through Will’s hair, but he doesn’t answer just yet. They wait a few beats that then turn into minutes, just enjoying the quiet intimacy between them. Will breaks the silence, curling closer before speaking.

“I don’t really think there’s any space to keep things from each other anymore,” he admits. “I’m invited into every room of your mind palace, and you constantly wander in mine. You can tell me.”

Hannibal smiles, moving Will just a bit closer still. “I thought perhaps we - _travel,_ soon. Relocate, essentially.”

Will raises an eyebrow, and reaches his hand out to rest on Hannibal’s chest, tracing patterns on his skin. He can feel his heartbeat match his own. “To where?”

Hannibal, decidedly, does not respond him with a straight answer, as expected. “There is an unfinished piece of business I have to attend to. Will you accompany me?”

“Of course,” Will responds, his eyelids starting to droop as sleep starts to pull at him. “Where are you taking me this time?”

Hannibal’s answer is quiet, almost wistful, as he runs his hand through Will’s hair again. “Keeping my end of a promise.”

 

 

_“Will?”_

 

 

Will opens his eyes, having forgotten they were closed. He looks forward at the worried, yet practiced look of concern on Alana Bloom's face before him.

He folds one hand over the other, maintaining a straight posture, radiating a quiet sense of pride. So very unlike the Will with Garret Jacob Hobbs’ blood splashed on his glasses.

He twists the black ebony ring with the red stone on his left ring finger, and crosses his legs as he stares back into his reflection in the interrogation room wall and pushes all thoughts of the fantasy of Hannibal, in handcuffs, staring back at him through the one-way mirror.

“How’s Abigail?” he asks offhandedly, to avoid any other questions. At least at first.

Alana doesn't let any emotion register on her face. She is here for a reason, not on a friendly level. Not anymore. “She was placed in witness protection. I have kept minimal contact with her. She’s starting over."

Will nods at that. It’s the best option for her, and easier to leave everything behind and start fresh.

“Can you explain your actions six months ago?” Alana asks, coming back to the reason of this conversation. Will stares back into his reflection and sees a version of himself that he first spotted in the polished side of Hannibal's refrigerator that fateful night... six months prior.

This version has eyes like pools you could dive into, something Hannibal has claimed was always present.

“What’s Hannibal looking at?” he says finally, not in answer to Alana’s question. Truthfully, he couldn't even remember what it had been.

Alana sighs, moving in her chair so she can sit up a little straighter. “The FBI keeping his case as close under wraps as possible for the upcoming weeks. If he can’t get an insanity plea, they’re pushing to give him the needle.”

Will nods, stretching his neck out before finally looking at Alana again. “So. What do you want to ask?”

“It’s not what I _want_ to _ask,”_ Alana retorted, “It’s what I _need_ to _know.”_

“And what is that?”

“I need to know if you were consciously aware of your thoughts and actions during your abduction six months ago.”

_Anthony Dimond weakly chokes on his own blood as Will’s foot presses down on his neck, cutting his air supply off._

Will blinks, centering himself in the present again. “I see.”

“If you were complacent, and not under the influence, you could be looking at a sentence of your own. Will, you have to tell me-”

“Why are you asking me?” Will asks. “Why not just ask Hannibal?”

Alana’s eyes harden. “Hannibal is claiming spousal testimony _and_ marital communications privileges. Which, once the FBI is done digging into your aliases, will probably be declared null and void.”

Will twists the ring on his finger again and watches Alana note his movements with a sad air about her. She leans forward, and tries again. 

“Will. This may not have been your fault, do you understand? All you have to do is cooperate with me. Now, can you explain why you were gone with him for six months?”

Will finally smiles. It is thin and cryptic, unsettling as something shifts beneath his outward demeanor.

“I ate the entire goddamn pomegranate.”

 _This time,_ he finishes in his mind.  _And I wanted it._

 

 

Shadow and Wednesday are sitting at the little table in Shadow’s motel room, playing a round of gin rummy as they discuss travel plans.

“There’s something in the air, Shadow,” Wednesday says as he picks up the two of hearts from the discard pile. “You can just about smell it.”

“What's it smell like?” Shadow asks, deciding to entertain Wednesday’s brand of bullshit today. “Something rotten in the state of Denmark?” he jokes. Wednesday smiles as he examines his hand.

“You could say that. Like overripe fruit. Sweet and sickly, near death but still a thread of life. You know?”

Shadow shrugs, reaching for a card in the pile when there’s a knock at the door. “I’ll get it,” Wednesday offers, placing his cards face down on the table and making his way to the door.

He opens the door to Agent Jack Crawford, his eyes stern. He holds up his badge. “Crawford, FBI.”

Shadow straightens up so fast he feels his neck and spine crack as his heart starts racing and his palms start sweating. A lump forms in his throat.

_Fuuuuuuuuck._

Wednesday keeps up a smile. “Hello, _Crawford, FBI._ May I ask why we’ve been paid a visit this good Sunday?”

Jack’s face does not not change. Shadow can feel the uneasiness twist in his stomach.

“We received a tip that both you and your companion were at the home of Dr. Hannibal Lecter the night before he abducted Will Graham and fled the country six months prior. Correct?”

The panic was rising in Shadow, but Wednesday still appeared stoic. “Where did you ever here such a tale?”

Jack’s frown deepens as he removes three photos from the folder in his hand. They’re from the traffic stoplight camera, but much higher quality photos than should be possible. In at least one photo, there is a clear shot of their faces. Wednesday’s brow furrowed.

“Who sent you these?”

 _Well there goes faking our innocence to the fucking **FBI,**_ Shadow thought, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“The name _‘Mr. World’_ ring a bell? Received a fax from him,” Jack asked, sounding more annoyed than pissed off. Wednesday actually rolled his eyes at him.

“Yeah, he’s basically _family,”_ he sneered, and at that, Jack stepped forward, eye to eye with Wednesday before he shot a quick look to Shadow.

“Both of you, come with me, now, for questioning.”

Wednesday sighed loudly as Shadow stood up, knees so close to buckling that he was afraid he’d fall over. _Oh god, if they look into his criminal record…_

“Gladly,” Wednesday smiled. “Is there a problem?”

“Hannibal Lecter was arrested today,” Jack answered curtly, and Wednesday’s good eye sparkled as Shadow’s stomach flipped completely inside of him.

“Shadow,” Wednesday asked, that obnoxious grin spreading across his face. “What day is it today?”

 _Fuck you,_ Shadow thought, thought it so hard he hoped it transmitted to Wednesday’s brain somehow. He took a deep breath as he walked over to the door where the two still stood. “It’s - it’s March 20th.”

“First day of spring,” Wednesday added, shaking his head in disbelief.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Jack asked, stepping out of the way so that the two men could step out to the front and come out to the car. Wednesday kept grinning, nearly bouncing back on forth on his heels.

“It means the asshole’s changing the fucking story.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS: I borrowed a line from [this wonderful fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11775114/chapters/26547987) by InfiniteCrisis, so go read their work and tell them they're lovely, okay? They deserve it.
> 
> Please, please leave all the comments and kudos you like! I love responding to them!
> 
> Come visit me and find ways to send me love and support (and coffees ;)) on [Tumblr](http://somebodyhelpthenotdeadfreds.tumblr.com)!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jesus is coming!” he sneered, really convoluting her message of supposed goodwill. Mad Sweeney just let out a barking laugh.
> 
> “Yeah, and if I get my way, so will I later tonight!” he grinned, flipping off the preacher before graciously opening the door for Persephone. “After you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was really fun to write! Nothing like some sass on sass.

_Somewhere in America, 1926_

 

“Fuck you!” Ares spat, squeezing his glass of wine so hard in his hand the stem of the glass trembled, ready to shatter. Luckily, the low hum of the speakeasy and music from the band made his shout a little muted. “We have a fucking agreement, one that’s lasted since any of them can remember.”

Hades seemed unperturbed by Ares’ outburst, having grown accustomed to it over the course of time. He simply took a slow sip from his own glass of wine as Vulcan tried to hold back a chuckle.

“Ares,” he began, slowly, as though talking to a child, “Our deal is that you provide me with souls in your wars, but America hasn’t had a war on its own soil in so long, you’re slipping, losing your touch.”

“Oh, but Vulcan makes his little fucking toys so they can all blow their brains out and you’re letting him in on our arrangement just like _that?”_ Ares argued, punctuating his words with a snap of his fingers.

“Well, it looks _I’m_ getting a lot more souls for him than you, currently,” Vulcan notes with satisfaction, their silly little rivalry coming to a head again. Hades held back the urge to roll his eyes. “You need to adapt to the times, _friend.”_

 _“Fuck_ you,” Ares insisted again, too mad to come up with anything better to say. He resorted to a whine, “Come _on,_ we have had this deal for _centuries,_ cut me some slack.”

Hades kept his unimpressed look, leaning forward in his chair so that he could clasp his hands together and rest his chin on top of them. “A deal is a deal, you know.”

“Oh please, he’s just lording it over me because he thinks he’s got it _so_ great right now, he doesn't know what it’s like to be knee deep in the blood and the g-”

“Your petty personal history is not relevant to me,” Hades says sternly. “All I’m interested in are your _results,_ and until they increase in a positive way, I think our meeting is adjourned, Ares. You’re dismissed.”

Ares stood up to leave, scowling deeply, and obviously scrambling to find some last insult to hurl at his opponent. “He’s still bitter because I used to sneak into his bed and and get with-”

“-And now she’s not with _either_ of you, pick a new battle already,” Persephone finally spoke up from where he was sitting on a bar stool, signing off on their tab. The bartender was paying their party no mind, too busy gathering ingredients for his mojito. Ares did not have the capacity to not roll his eyes.

“Like you’re the _epitome_ of a happy marriage,” he mocked. “Like neither of you never ever thought about someone else or-”

Persephone smiled and raised a hand to cut off his train of thought. It was thin, and out of sheer teeth-gritting politeness. “How _we_ settle our disagreements is none of your business.”

The bartender finished crushing and muddling the mint leaves into tiny little flecks and stirred it into the drink, passing it to Persephone, who downed it one go, the cheap bootleg alcohol burning all the way down. Ares laughed, a harsh sound, for that is the only kind of joy that exists in war.

“Well, maybe I should have torn a page from your book, Hades, and went with the _kidnapping_ route for a - ”

He trailed off in his words at the cold, dark stare from Hades.

Hades was usually very slow to anger, even slower to _act_ upon anger, because patience was usually all that he needed. Sooner or later, he always won. He stood up the, a careful, measured movement, and Ares had to duck his head and look away at the sheer force behind the glare.

“I thought I had dismissed you,” he said quietly. A comment sprang up in Ares’ throat but died before it could reach his lips. He swallowed the words back down and moved a little, visibly uncomfortable as not a Hades indicated not a single trace of emotion or movement. “On your way.”

Ares managed to nod and grab his suit jacket hanging on the back of his chair, draping it over his arm and nodding a goodbye while keeping his eyes trained to the ground as he walked out the front. Hades sat back down, reaching his hand out accepting another glass of wine from Persephone, who was trying not to smile.

“Easy,” he soothed, rubbing his hand on his shoulder and straightening a wrinkle on his pinstripe suit before standing up from his stool. He nodded over to Vulcan, “You two can finish, I need some fresh air.”

Hades let a flicker of a smile cross hsi expression before they both went back to discussing business, and Persephone walked out the door, taking a deep breath of the November air. However, his revelry was shattered with the angry words drenched in an Irish accent. He sighed, and walked over to where Mad Sweeney was heckling a cigarette stand.

“A whole fuckin’ quarter for a pack of-”

Persephone cut Sweeney off with a wave of his hand, passing a dollar over to the man working behind the cigarette stand. “Menthols. And whatever he wanted. Keep the change.” The man nodded, smoothing out the bill and handing over the packs. Sweeney grunted out a thanks the both of them, tearing into the package. Persephone used his nail to undo the taping, rolling his eyes at the group of street evangelicals now standing in front of the speakeasy, ranting and raving about the damned souls of America. Good for them. It was all bullshit until one of them, the preacher of the group, physically blocked Persephone’s way to the door.

“Jesus is coming!” he sneered, really convoluting her message of supposed goodwill. Mad Sweeney just let out a barking laugh.

“Yeah, and if I get my way, so will I later tonight!” he grinned, flipping off the preacher before graciously opening the door for Persephone. “After you.”

“Thanks,” Persephone said dryly, straightening his light-colored suit as he walked in, and sat down at a table on the side, motioning for one of the servers to bring a drink. As soon as he gets his seat and drink, Sweeney slid down in the seat across from him without an invitation. He slapped his pack on the table and pulled out a cigarette.

“You got a light, chaos-bringer?”

Persephone smiled, and flicked open his silver Zippo lighter, and Sweeney lit his cigarette, blowing the smoke up towards the ceiling. Persephone was removing one from his own pack when Sweeney spoke up, gripping his cigarette, a Carroll’s, between his teeth.

“Thought your ma wouldn’t want you to be smoking. Destroying a plant life and all that nonsense.”

Persephone narrowed his eyes, lighting his own cigarette and took a long drag, breathing out the fresh smoke before speaking. “I make my _own_ choices, thank you.”

“Yeah, and that’s been fuckin’ _grand_ for the world, hasn’t it?” Sweeney said sarcastically, taking another drag. “That's why it’s fucking cold out.”

Persephone shrugged a little, letting the ash drip onto the table as he finished his glass of white wine and set it back down. “I don’t know. I really like the cold.”

“‘Course you do,” Sweeney said, flipping a coin out of thin air and landing it right in Persephone’s empty. “There, there’s my fare. Figured I oughtta pay now before I forget. Coin trick for ya, to boot. Usually don’t do ‘em for free.”

“I’m honored. What do you want in return?” Persephone asked, ash getting underneath his fingernails now. “No one makes a payment unless they are obligated or they want something.”

“The only thing I want, chaos-bringer,” Sweeney said, blowing out a perfect ‘O’ ring of smoke, “is to not die anytime soon. I’ve got too much shite to get through in _this_ life to even _start_ worryin’ about the next.”

Persephone looked unimpressed, and his voice carried a similar tone. “Why bother _me_ with that?”

“What, you expect me to go ask your man over there-” he stabbed his finger in the direction where Hades was finishing his discussion with Vulcan, occasionally glancing over to Persephone from behind Mad Sweeney’s shoulder. “-and say _‘pretty please’_ and bat these gorgeous eyes? Good fuckin’ luck with that, everyone knows you’re the only force in this life or the next that has any sway over ‘m.”

“Why does everything think I have him on a leash?” Persephone sighed, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t. We’re different entities.”

“Oh, I know, sweetheart,” Sweeney said, stabbing out the butt of the cigarette right there on the table. “You dance on the line year after year, he’s firmly where he should be. You just like to have the appearance of blessing new life when you really like rolling around in the dark.”

Persephone though reaching forward and removing one of Sweeney’s cigarettes from the package. He rolls it over his hand a few times, closes it in a fist, and smiles a smile as genuine as cellophane Easter grass as he opens his fist to reveal a tobacco flower free from the cigarette paper, as though it were fresh from the ground. Its five creamy white petals have a dark pink tinge to the sides. He twirls the flower by the stem before he looks back up at Mad Sweeney.

“There’s some life for you,” he says, finally, and then his smile shifts to genuine. Sweeney looks over his shoulder and watches as Hades gracefully makes his way over to where they are sitting, and he takes a seat himself, right beside Persephone, and rests his arm across Persephone’s shoulders.

“Is there an issue?” he asks politely, ever so cool and collected.

“Ah, keep your fuckin’ shoes on, ya Stygian Jove,” Mad Sweeney said, grinning in an obnoxiously smug way. “Just friendly chat, nothin’ for you get yourself tied up into a knot about. Besides,” he adds, stretching his neck out and leaning far back in his chair, “Unlike your man there, I know better than to be puttin’ dead things anywhere near my mouth.”

There’s exactly one-tenth of a second where Sweeney realizes there is a foot on the bottom rung of his chair, and the other nine-tenths of that second are a blur as the chair is quite literally yanked out from under him and he hits the ground _hard,_ smacking the back of his head against the nearby table. Half-empty glasses fall off the table and shatter on the floor beside his head, and he growls as he fights the entanglement of the chair and forces himself to stand up. He lets out another annoyed growl at the glowing embers of amusement mixed with annoyance in Hades’ expression.

“Oh, you _fuckin’_ arse, I oughtta-”

“Do _what?”_ Hades asks, too smug and too aware that he holds the _ultimate_ card in the deck. Sweeney reaches forward, grabs his pack and coin off the table, and shoots them both a glare cold as ice as he turns to leave without another word.

“Afternoon, then,” Hades calls after him, ignoring the middle finger Sweeney raises as he leaves the speakeasy. Persephone laughs as he leans his head back, resting it against Hades’ arm still supporting him. 

He twirls the flower by the stem as he said, “That was very mature, darling.”

“My fuse was already quite short today,” Hades replies, lifting his wineglass to his lips. “And I do not tolerate an insult to your character.”

“How noble of you, to defend my honor that I tarnished all on my own,” Persephone teases, examining the flower in the light before placing it in his mouth, chewing slowly. He turns so he rubs up against Hades’ sharp jawline, and smiles as Hades turns to him as well.

He breaths tobacco smoke across the wine still gathered in the corner of Hades’ lips, and Hades smiles.

“Your honor is too far gone to defend,” he teases back. “It’s your _nature_ I will defend to the end, my love.”

 

 

 

Will sits back at his old house in Wolf Trap, his dogs happily napping all in the front room. Alana had taken care of them all this time, in case Will would return. Everything is exactly how he left it. 

But he can’t sleep. Not to save his life.

It’s too warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This is another little backstory piece, but it will tie into our main story soon enough! Next update will be a while, however, gotta deal with college. See you later, lovelies!)
> 
> Please, please leave all the comments and kudos you like! I love responding to them!
> 
> Come visit me and find ways to send me love and support (and coffees) on [Tumblr](http://somebodyhelpthenotdeadfreds.tumblr.com)!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams,_   
>  _Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before_   
>  _Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar_   
>  _And you'll live as you've never lived before_
> 
>  
> 
> \- "Music of the Night," Phantom of the Opera
> 
>  
> 
> (begins right where _The Blood Must Flow_ ends before going back to our current story)

The dinner china is put away in the cabinet, another bottle of wine has been opened, and Anthony Dimmond’s fresh blood is still smeared against the front door. It needed a new coat of paint, anyway.

Will washes his hands in the bathroom, rubbing the soap under his nails to get the blood out, and looks up to study his reflection. He’s still not used to the newfound air of self-confidence that he can see forming in his posture, in how he carries himself, and even in his eyes. He’s never felt calmer, even as something buzzes inside of his veins. He tilts his head, stretching his neck, and breathes out evenly. Turning the sink off, he dries his hands and walks back out to the bedroom.

The veranda doors are wide open, and the night breeze gently swirls the dark curtains, billowing out to frame Hannibal’s shape as he pensively stares out into the inky black sky, the twinkling of the stars nice and bright.

 _Perhaps some of our stars will, or even have, always be the same,_ Hannibal had remarked, in the Uffizi after Will had finally said that he loved him.

Hannibal turns as he hears Will shut the bathroom door, and the stars illuminate the space around his head, like broken remnants of a halo, or something becoming of a deity. Hannibal shuts the doors as Will walks until he’s just a few feet away. Hannibal closes the space between them and brushes the hair from his face with one hand, as the other arm wraps around Will’s waist and pulls him in close. He kisses his right temple, and Will smiles as he lifts his head up and Hannibal breaks away to meet his eyes, breathing against his lips. Will leans in closer, close enough to gently press his forehead against Hannibal’s. Hannibal surprises him, however, by breaking away long enough to reach the cord for the heavy curtains.

“May I?” he asks quietly. It's surprising for the simple reason that Hannibal usually wants the perfect amount of light in the room so he can wax poetic about the beauty of the moment or something like that. But the words come out of Will’s mouth without even thinking, as though they aren’t his words at all.

“You may.”

Hannibal pulls the curtains closed, and now they can barely see the outlines of each other, just vague shadowy figures. Will reaches out into the dark and his hand braces against Hannibal’s chest, and he smiles as his hand reaches up to hold it there. He can feel the heartbeat. The other arm wraps around Will’s waist and pulls him closer, and his eyes close, and he feels strangely at peace. Like...

...like when the smell of a very _specific_ mix of wildflowers, grass-stained clothes, and rain-softened earth crosses your nostrils one day and then you’re instantly transported to a certain day in May when your first love smiled at you.

Just like that, you remember everything you were, everything you used to be.

“Tell me,” Will _(is that his name? He vaguely remembers that name_ ) says on instinct. _“Tell me.”_

“I love you,” Hannibal _(that’s his name, isn't it? He’s having trouble remembering)_ says without even considering the words in his head first. “I always have.”

“Tell me.”

“You are sublime, in the true, traditional sense of the word. Beautiful, yet annihilating. I was lost until I stared back into your eyes after so long.

Hannibal’s hand moves away from Will’s and reaches out in the darkness, knowing exactly where to smooth back Will’s hair from his eyes, as though he’s done this hundreds upon hundreds of times. His hand slides down to trace his fingers against Will’s jawline, until he rests two fingers underneath his chin and tilts his head up very gently.

In their current life, Will probably couldn’t even fathom Hannibal being this gentle with anyone.

But maybe in another life, he was different. They were different. Not in a bad way, just - just _different._ Neither of them can find the words to describe it. Instead, Hannibal leans down and kisses Will softly on the lips.

And it’s so _easy,_ like slipping into a warm bath.

Will smiles into the kiss, unable to hold back, and his hand on Hannibal's chest slowly slides up until he feels the wrinkled collar on his shirt, and a thought possesses his mind to grab and pull on it. He decides to not follow that thought.

Instead, he curls his fingers, compiling the material even more and shoving him backwards with enough force so that Hannibal’s back makes a soft thump against the dark, heavy curtains, and he matches Will’s smile in the kiss.

“I believe that I may have dragged you down into my world,” Hannibal breathes out against his lips, mirth in his voice.

Will’s voice has a smooth, teasing quality to it when he responds with a familiar response: “I got here all on my own. But I appreciate the company.”

Hannibal chuckles, and it’s a rare and precious sound, and he kisses Will again. Slowly, he slides his hands down Will’s sides until they rest at his hips. In a fluid movement and sighing against each other, Hannibal lifts Will up and Will slips his legs over Hannibal’s hips and they’re smiling and laughing and kissing and it feels far more familiar than just the apparent two months since they ran off, but maybe… they were _always_ like this.

Some door in a mind palace has finally been unlocked after losing the key so long ago.

Will can feel Hannibal taking steps but not letting go until they reach the bed and then everything is lost in Egyptian cotton, touches, kisses, and darkness.

 

The next morning, with the bright sun sneaking in through the cracks in the curtains, there’s a concern that maybe this shift in _who_ they are, _what_ they are is too much.

But Will turns over in the sheets, and he has to grin at Hannibal Lecter with messy hair and a smile a few shades short of awe as he looks at Will and takes his hand. He presses a kiss to his palm and Will closes his eyes and can’t fight it as his grin gets wider and he laughs outright.

 _I’m still not exactly sure what this is,_ he thinks. _But I want it._

 

 

 

“....and then I said, Marjorie, you’re know you’re getting on, you know that Travis died in that combine accident back in ‘93, and his dog met his maker years before that when he got hit by Charlie’s old Ford pickup, you _can’t_ be seein’ them standing in the basement, and - ” Wednesday rambled, before Jack cut him off.

“Enough,” he said firmly, and Wednesday finally shut up. “I don’t want to hear stories.”

“Why not? They’re the best way to learn.”

“I want the truth.”

“The truth is a sneaky little bastard, isn't it?” Wednesday said, grinning a little. “It’s so _tantalizing_ when you don’t know what it is, and then it’s a treacherous little gift that you can’t give back.”

“I’d still like to know,” Jack insisted, keeping a hard look on his face. “All I ask for is the truth. Can you give that to me?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Wednesday warned in a teasing way. “Even with a friend of yours turning out to be a cannibal and ' _supposedly'_  kidnapping the cleverest hound in your pack.”

 _“Supposedly?”_ Jack said, raising an eyebrow. “Continue.”

Wednesday sighed, leaned back in his chair and smirked. “All right. I’ll tell you.”

 

 

“My name is Shadow Moon, I don’t know what the fuck is going on, and I really, really wish I fucking did,” Shadow swore to no one in particular. He knew there was a camera somewhere, there was someone watching through the one-way glass, and yet, he was isolated. He was gonna give Wednesday hell for this

“Listen, if I knew what was going on, I don’t know if I’d still be here,” he declared. “I just - I don’t know. I don’t know. I want to know, but - do I? Look, I know this sounds crazy, but - weird things keep happening.” He took a deep breath and then continued. “TVs are talking, and - and taking the moon out of the sky, and hammers bleed without even hitting anything, and - and I just don’t know what I believe. I don’t know.”

Almost as soon as he finishes speaking, the door opens to an FBI agent, one Shadow hasn’t met, walking in and letting him know that he’s free to leave. “Crawford thinks your boss is a lunatic, talking about carousels and ancient deities and the ‘upcoming war between the old and new’ but honestly, he’s seen worse. Your boss is in the front lobby, c’mon.”

Shadow doesn’t hide the glare he descends to Wednesday, but Wednesday chooses to send a grin over his old _New Yorker,_ just dropping it on the table by his chair as he gets up to greet him.

“Thanks very much!” he says cheerfully to the agent, who visibly holds back an eyeroll and turns around to go back to work. Wednesday wipes his hand on the side of his pants and looks expectantly at Shadow.

“Well, come on, let’s go back to the hotel, I wanna go over some plans.”

“Oh, no. No you fucking _don’t,”_ Shadow says, keeping his anger under his tongue. “What the fuck _is_ this?”

“We had nothing to do with what happened, relax, we’re clear.”

“What the fuck is happening?”

“You know, as soon as a serial killer gets found they gotta look into all his acquaintances, but we, as stated previously, Shadow, are clear. Now, come on, I’ll drive, and hey, we can even go to this great diner for dinner, best chicken-fried steak you’ll ever have.”

Shadow kept the frown on his face as they made their way to the car, his stomach was still uneasy. “I don’t think I can stand any meat right now.”

“Don’t feel bad, human meat supposedly tastes like pork, not chicken or steak. Or is it veni-”

“Stop, okay, just - stop, that does _not_ make me feel better.”

 

 

Will’s dreaming again. 

He’s in the ground, like he’s been buried alive.

His fingers are curled into the rich, dark soil, thrashing and digging. When he breathes, the _dirt,_ it’s in his lungs, in his chest, under his nails.

And he can’t tell if he’s clawing his way out of the earth or trying to dig further downwards, desperately scratching his way to find -

Will awakes, drenched in sweat and panting, to the sound of the phone ringing. Swallowing a few times, he checks the clock and sees that it’s still a little early, not too unreasonable for a phonecall. He drags himself out of bed, running a hand through his sweaty curls plastered to his forehead and stumbles over to the phone. He swallows again before answering. “What - who is it?”

“Hello, Mr. Graham,” a voice says cheerfully on the other end. Will doesn't recognize the voice, and rubs his forehead with the bottom of his palm. “You can call me Cordell.”

“What do you want?” Will says, too tired and honestly too annoyed to bother with pleasantries.

“My employer, Mr. Verger, would like to meet with you tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, "beautiful, but annihilating" is a Sylvia Path quote, but it fits so damn well, people! I had to use it! And if you're curious, we will see how Hannibal's doing, we haven't focused much on him, but you'll get a little update with him next time, I believe. The plot thickens, it seems...
> 
> Please, please leave all the comments and kudos you like! I love responding to them!
> 
> Come visit me and find ways to send me love and support (and coffees;);) on [Tumblr](http://somebodyhelpthenotdeadfreds.tumblr.com)!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Single room, please,” Hades asked politely of the woman behind the reception desk at the nearest hotel that was just a few roaches shy of four stars, having to settle for three. The woman peered over her cat-eye-framed glasses at him, then they shifted over to Persephone who absently turning pages in the phonebook on the counter.
> 
> “A single means one bed,” she says, as though being polite pains her. Persephone gave her an absolutely withering look.
> 
> “We know,” he forced out, his own smile strained. “That’s the idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVEN'T UPLOADED IN FOREVER AND I'M SORRY EVERYONE.
> 
> BUT enjoy this short little chapter while I start making progress with it again! Really I was inspired by the idea of a greaser-style Persephone.
> 
> Also feel free to have any Lana del Rey song playing as you read to enhance the experience.

_Somewhere in Texas, in America, 1951_

 

Hades nodded graciously to the diner waitress in a light blue uniform who refilled his cup with straight black coffee.

“Sure you don’t want any sugar or cream, honey?” she said, her smile as bright as the neon sign outside.

“No thank you,” he replied quietly, lifting the cup to his lips and took a long sip. The waitress noted that the whipped cream on the slice of uneaten cherry pie on the table was beginning to melt. She shook her head and went back behind the counter, and checked the clock. 11:58 PM. Another two hours and two minutes before the shift ended.

Hades set his coffee back down picked up his newspaper again. This one was a local paper. He’d already read through another three national ones in his time sitting here on a starchy corner booth. Five cups deep in coffee. He felt no buzz. He never did.

Flipping through the movie times, the scandal of a politician caught with someone under his desk, the classified ads begging for a job, for buyers, for love, for companionship. He read through the obituaries, noting how many he could have had. Only three were his in this past week. He’d had to take them himself; Jesus and occasionally Yahweh had the rest. It wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t ever be the way it was before.

The bell over the door jingled, signaling the arrival of a new customer. Hades was compelled to look up, and smiled for the first time in weeks.

Persephone messed his windswept curls as he held his menthol between his teeth, stretching  his neck out, straining the loose leather jacket embroidered with flowers all over. Then he took the cigarette out of his mouth and buried it into the ashtray at the entrance. He smiled at the waitress before walking right over to Hades’ booth and sitting opposite him, leaning back in a relaxed pose. They shared nothing but smiles until the waitress came over with the coffeepot.

“How do you take your coffee, honey? You need anything else?” she directed to Persephone as she poured out the coffee into a clean cup with a chip on the corner.

“I take it black, and I’m alright, thanks,” Persephone responded, accepting the cup when she was done and taking a sip. He waited until she’d gone back behind the counter to pull out the pack of menthols from his pocket, taking one and putting it away again. He raised a teasing eyebrow at Hades. “Got a light?”

Hades responded in kind and removed a lighter from his own pocket. Persephone held the cigarette in his teeth and leaned close across the table, letting Hades light it for him. Then he leaned back and took it out of his mouth to hold between two fingers and breathe out the smoke. Hades pushed the plate of pie towards him in offering. Persephone nodded and picked up his fork, breaking off a bit and eating it slowly.

“She wouldn’t let me leave until exactly midnight, would have been here earlier if I could’ve,” he says, taking another drag.

Hades can just barely make out the cracked, dry earth outside in between the flashes of neon. “She’s more upset than usual, it would seem.”

“She’s pissed in general. No one’s following her, so she’s resorting to making them pray for her. Harvest is going to be shit this year.”

Hades nodded, folding down the paper and looking back up at Persephone, working his jaw. “And I assume your departure didn’t improve her disposition?”

“Does it ever?” Persephone scoffed. “She thinks in black and white. If I’m not right there with her during our time she panics like I’m still a child that doesn't know what they’re doing. She doesn't understand that I like the sunlight as much as I like being with you.”

Hades smiled, and used another clean fork to break off a piece of pie for himself. After he finishes his price, he quotes, “There are darknesses in life, and there are lights, and you are one of the lights, the light of all lights.”

Persephone smiled around his cigarette, and he thought back to that time. _“Dracula?_ Really?”

“You enjoyed it when we went to the film premiere.”

“That was a good time. We should go to the movies again, soon. There’s a thing now where you watch a movie from your car. Just drive up to the screen.”

“Why would anyone want to watch a film from their car? That’s what theaters are for.”

“You're so stuffy,” Persephone laughed. “I tell you all the time to get fresh air, it’s not that terrible.”

“I receive more than enough fresh air when we are together, you drag me out into it often enough,” Hades replies, pretending to be perturbed. It’s all in jest. “I suppose she thinks that I keep you locked in dark prison cell for six months.”

Persephone just snorted, the ash falling onto his white shirt that peeked out from under the leather jacket. “Even if I told her that we spent all of our time in sunshine, she’d argue why I need to be with you if we don’t even stay down there like we used to. We don’t fit her paradigm, darling. We’ll always be a disappointment.”

Hades drank from his coffee that was rapidly growing cold, and smiled into the cup when he felt a foot press up against his leg. He looked over the rim of the mug to see Persephone running his finger through the dark red cherry juice on the plate. They shared eye contact as he licked the juice off, then stubbed his cigarette out on the table’s ashtray.

“So let’s go be fucking disappointments together,” he said, far too innocently. Hades smiled in return, and they both got up from the booth, money left on the table. The waitress watched as they went out the door, Hades’ hand on Persephone’s lower back.

 

“Single room, please,” Hades asked politely of the woman behind the reception desk at the nearest hotel that was just a few roaches shy of four stars, having to settle for three. The woman peered over her cat-eye-framed glasses at him, then they shifted over to Persephone who absently turning pages in the phonebook on the counter.

“A single means one bed,” she says, as though being polite pains her. Persephone gave her an absolutely withering look.

“We know,” he forced out, his own smile strained. “That’s the idea.”

She was going to refuse. She was opening her mouth to refuse, but Hades slid over enough cash to cover an entire week’s stay. He cocked his head and looked at her. “Is that satisfactory?”

She bit her lip, and accepted the money, fumbling around for the key and passing it over to them. “There's a Bible in the dresser drawer.”

“My mother told me not to read things that will rot my brain,” Persephone smiled, blinking to sell the ‘sweet-but-stupid’ act. “Too late for you, I suppose,” he said airily, almost as an afterthought as Hades rolled his eyes and took his hand, pulling him towards the elevator. Persephone couldn’t hold back the laughter as Hades pressed the button for the second floor, and then pressed him up into the corner of the crotchety elevator. His lips were still stained red from cherry juice.

“You are a _menace,_ chaos-bringer,” Hades scolds lightly. “I cannot take you anywhere.”

Persephone raised his eyebrow as he tilted his neck back, exposing the hollow of his throat. “Too bad you’re stuck with me, then, isn’t it?” he murmured, playing along. “And I thought you were taking me upstairs. I’ve been looking forward to it.”

The kiss that follows between the two of them in the tiny elevator is branding, and it tastes like cherries and bitter coffee and ash.

 

 

They were tangled in the standard white sheets, top blanket knocked onto the ground in their haste.

Persephone reached out blindly with his left hand for the pack of clove cigarettes on the bedside table, a task made more difficult by Hades pulling at his right arm and nuzzling against his neck. Finally, he manages to pull out one cigarette and a loose match that fell out of the box when the bedside table had been jostled. He passed the match over to Hades and holds the cigarette in his teeth. Hades uses the rough engraving on the top of the wooden headboard of the bed to light the match, then lights the cigarette. Waving the match, the flame goes out, and he flicks it away. Persephone takes a long drag, then takes it out of his mouth with his free hand to breath out sweetly-spiced smoke.

He never smokes menthols after they do this.

It’s always clove.

The hazy peace in the room is interrupted by the loud stomping on the ceiling above them, and some muffled shouting that sounds suspricouly like ‘shut the fuck up.’

“They’re just fucking jealous,” Persephone breathes out along with the smoke, before offering the cigarette to Hades. He declines, curling closer instead, breathing in the smell of sunshine in Persephone’s hair.

“I’m not supposed to smoke when I’m away,” Persephone comments, the ash dripping onto the sheets. “I still do, in secret.”

“Withdrawals?”

“From you, you’re my bad habit,” Persephone smiles. “She hates that you let me smoke.”

“I learned millennia ago that I cannot ‘let’ or stop you from doing anything,” is Hades’ muffled response, that earns a chuckle from Persephone. “Nobody can. I just understood that.”

Persephone sighed out the smoke, and put the cigarette out in the ashtray before turning back, settling against the pillows. “You cared to understand. And that has made all the difference.”

“Frost?”

“Felt appropriate.”

“Mmh,” Hades hums in return, and nothing more is said for a while, too content with being tangled around each other. But Hades reaches out and gently turns Persephone’s face towards him. “You’re thinking about something. What is it?”

Persephone smiles, nuzzling against him, and haphazardly gestured in the direction of the window. “They’re dying out there. The plants, the people. It’s getting cold now, the grass is all dry, everything is dry and dead, there’s nothing around for miles but dust and more dust.”

“And does that trouble you?”

“It should,” Persephone murmurs, rolling over and switching their positions so that he’s on top of his husband, resting his head on his chest as Hades’ cold fingers card through his curls. “But I just don’t care.”

 

 

 

Hannibal reopens his eyes, moving to the writing desk in his cell, and takes out a piece of soft paper. It was a pleasant memory, he wanted to recapture it, even if it still didn’t feel quite like his. He closes his eyes again, clinging to the emotions and the sensations he had felt.

When he looked down at the drawing, it resembled Will. But there was something just a little _off,_ like he was drawing from a memory buried deep in a locked room of his mind palace.

 

Will stares up at the water stain on the ceiling of his house as he lies in bed, dressed for the Verger meeting, and tries to recapture that memory. It’s a memory, not a fantasy or a daydream or a hallucination. It happened.

And somewhere deep down, he knows that Hannibal remembers, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope we all enjoyed! Updates may be a while, I'm working on my English degree so I gotta keep up with that, but I'll update when I can. In the meantime...
> 
> Please, please leave all the comments and kudos you like! I love responding to them!
> 
> Come visit me and find ways to send me love and support (and coffees!!!) on [Tumblr](http://somebodyhelpthenotdeadfreds.tumblr.com)!


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